Steven Porter writes

Track Marks

Track marks look the same on every page.

You turn your arms over and they're 

all paintings by the same artist; a broken

record of your least favorite song, a 

singer who can only sing in one key.

Track marks are old, sullen felines,

resting in one spot for so long, their

shedded hairs have contoured with

the hard-marble countertop.

When one notices these blisters,

no answer is needed.

This needle-stenciled manuscript can't be edited.

How long can one clean a dirty mirror 

before they let dust speak for itself?

 

--Mark Evans

Steven Porter writes

Grave Robber

I hear shoveling outside. I'm too drunk to lift my 

head from the pillow, but the digging is growing louder.

I trudge across my room and peek through the blinds. 

I see a pot-bellied, gray-haired man driving 

a shovel into the earth with a lantern overhead, 

hanging off a crooked tree branch.

The man plunges into the hole, feet first; a 

loud thud echoes (I assume he hit the casket).

Several minutes later he resurfaces holding several 

rings gleaming under the lantern and a pearl necklace.

I continue to watch him inspect his 

spoils while I sip a half-empty, warm beer.

I turn back to go to bed, thinking, "I should 

apply for his job. I might make my rent on time."

 

 -- Tom Huck

 

Steven Porter writes

What Rain Leaves Behind

As darkness coagulates,

raindrops hit the pavement with

sounds similar to a moaning child.

Calypso music plays from some far distance.

Unseen musicians conceal themselves among fog.

Cracked glasses on the sidewalk gather water;

their delirious owner wanders, chasing frogs. 

The rain stops...

The moaning ceases, missing child posters 

appear out of nowhere like misplaced relics.

Madonna and Missing Child -- Khalil Younes